


Old and New

by crackinthecup



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family Reunions, Gen, Healing, Mentions of Death, Mother-Son Relationship, Trauma, re-embodiment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26341108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: “Not so, my darling,” Calairië says, voice quiet but vehement, and in that moment Celebrimbor feels young, and he feels loved, and he realises how much he has missed both of those things. “No one can shoulder the weight of the world on their own, though your father and your grandfather both tried in their own ways.”Celebrimbor has spent long years in the Halls of Mandos, thinking, healing, coming to terms with the truth of him. Now he is ready to go back home, and his mother is there for him.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	Old and New

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Written for the lovely @alackofghosts over on Tumblr <3
> 
> 2) Mrs Curufin's name is the result of a conversation I had with @alackofghosts a few years ago. We settled on Calairië Ringelenë (meaning Sea Light and Cold Star respectively).

They do not speak.

Not now that they are in the kitchen of Celebrimbor’s old family home where his mother has lived all these years; and not before as they made their winding way from the Halls of Mandos, over lush fields under a golden sun and through the glittering streets of Tirion.

Calairië has never been particularly talkative: not like this, not when she isn’t discussing her latest project or incipient idea that is lighting up her whole being from the inside out.

No, this is quite different.

She is not unfeeling, far from it. Though he has not seen his mother in millennia, Celebrimbor still understands her without the need for words. He knows what she means when she arches an eyebrow or purses her lips or smiles a small shadow of a smile. His new body seems to carry a sense of her as much as the old one did, an understanding rooted into the very threads of his _fëa_.

Calairië is overwhelmed and uncertain. She is trying to conceal it, to be strong for him.

Celebrimbor smiles, the motion at once strange and familiar, his lips quirking upwards as his new body tries to convey the emotions that flicker and swirl and dance through his _fëa_. He has enough strength for both of them. He has enough strength for the whole continent, even. His time in the Halls was long, his wounds were deep, but he is here and he is whole and it no longer feels like a failure that he has learned to use a new definition of wholeness.

“You look radiant,” Celebrimbor tells his mother, in an echo of what his father used to say to her in their old life.

A laugh bubbles out of Calairië, loud, unlovely, perfect in every way. Celebrimbor is smiling still, so widely that it hurts, but he doesn’t want to stop, he doesn’t think he will ever stop.

“That is a lie, but a kind one,” Calairië replies, returning his smile; she seems surprised that it is so easy to find joy in little things like this.

“I would never lie to you,” Celebrimbor says lightly.

“You used to,” she counters, “and frequently too. You would lie about not feeling tired just so we would let you read one more chapter or sketch one more diagram before bed. About how much time you’d already spent in the forge so you could get one more little thing over the finish line.”

Memory flickers into the present, and Celebrimbor can see himself here, in his home: running into the kitchen where his mother is reading by the window, still wearing the leather gloves that are slightly too big for him, eager to show her what he has made in the forge with his father’s help.

It was a ring, the first piece of jewellery he had ever made, a thin band of silver with a rough finish. He glances downwards, at his own fingers curled around the steaming mug of ginger tea his mother has made for him; they seem bare without his usual assortment of rings, too bare and smooth and unscarred.

A strange discomfort churns in his stomach and he looks away, eyes slipping to his mother’s hands across the table. Calairië has many rings strewn across her fingers, but one of them in particular catches his eye: silver, looking almost unfinished, nestled just above her wedding ring.

He knows that ring; he _made_ that ring.

Celebrimbor can’t remember his old heart ever feeling so _full_.

“You’re still wearing the ring.”

Calairië raises her hand. Her rings catch the light of the westering sun, and the metal is set aflame. She closes her eyes, just for a second. There are tears on her cheeks when she opens them again.

“I’ve missed you,” she says softly. “I wish I could have been there with you.”

Celebrimbor swallows the knot in his throat; he takes her hand, feels the rings on her fingers pressing into his skin.

“I’m glad you weren’t,” he says, and his voice is no more than a whisper. “There was so much death.”

“Death does not frighten me, Tyelpë.”

“It should,” he replies, and the words come bubbling up from the core of him, sudden and urgent. His heart has been mended in the Halls, enough for him to be able to bear the touch of another without the phantom taste of blood frothing on his tongue; but healing is not an endeavour to be completed alone. “When you see corpses upon corpses, all bloodied, all lifeless, you start to question everything you thought you knew about yourself.”

Calairië nods. “I have seen it. There are tapestries in the Halls of Awaiting that show every moment in the unfolding history of the world. I used to go there sometimes, sit in front of those tapestries and picture myself there, in your world. I watched you live your life within those woven threads.” There is a light in her eyes, warm like a fire in the hearth and just as fierce. “And what a life you made for yourself and for our people! I am proud of you, Tyelpë.”

Celebrimbor’s grip on his mother’s hand tightens ever so slightly.

“I did my best,” he says, and he reminds himself to hold his head up high. “It was not enough.”

He can say those words, now, he can speak them evenly, calmly, without feeling like he has swallowed the whole world and it is crumbling inside of him. He has spent years wondering what he would have done differently; over time, his answer changed from _everything_ to _nothing at all_.

“Not so, my darling,” Calairië says, voice quiet but vehement, and in that moment Celebrimbor feels young, and he feels loved, and he realises how much he has missed both of those things. “No one can shoulder the weight of the world on their own, though your father and your grandfather both tried in their own ways. What you were pitted against is not for the Elves to overcome, not until the mightiest of the Valar decide to leave their thrones once more and lead us in wrath and vengeance across the Sea. Not a single soul in hundreds of thousands could have endured what you did.”

“Perhaps,” Celebrimbor murmurs, “and perhaps not. But my part in that tale is now ended. What anyone else could or would have done only has as much meaning as we choose to give it.”

“Wisely spoken,” says Calairië with a smile on her lips; she looks a little sad, a ghost trapped in a memory that no longer fits, but she holds Celebrimbor’s gaze with bright, steady eyes. “You have grappled with these matters before.”

“More times than I can count! I did nothing but grappling for an age of the world.” There is a pause; they are both learning and re-learning to fill the spaces around each other’s edges, old and new alike. Eventually Celebrimbor asks, “Do you have any news of Atar?”

His mother sighs. “No, darling. I ask the Maiar of the Halls as often as my heart can bear it, but they tell me he refuses to leave until he can do so with Fëanáro by his side.”

“Ah.” Celebrimbor releases his mother’s hand. He props his elbows on the table, dropping his chin into his hands. “I would have liked to see him.”

“You will. We both will.” There is no trace of doubt in Calairië’s voice. “The wait does not seem so daunting now that you are here.”

“Well,” Celebrimbor begins, his face brightening as his eyes land on his mother’s rings once more, “at least it means that I have plenty of time to make you some better jewellery.”

Calairië laughs. She slips off the little band of silver, holding it up into the air. “I think it has its own charm.”

Celebrimbor plucks the ring from her fingers. He grimaces as he regards its plain, uneven surface with a craftsman’s eye. “This won’t do at all. I will remake this ring for you, and forge new ones too, rings adorned with glittering gemstones that will be the envy of Valinórë.”

Calairië reaches across the table, cupping his cheek in the palm of her hand. “You don’t need to remake the ring, my darling. You don’t need to forge anything else ever again unless it is for your own pleasure. I already have the most perfect jewel in all the land sitting at my table.” She strokes a thumb over his cheekbone, an old touch over new skin, and her eyes are bright and certain and adoring. “The only thing that needs to be remade is your happiness, Tyelpë, and that is a project for the two of us to tackle together.”


End file.
